One golden August morning in a village
bordering Lake Bras Dor, three tourists, father, mother
and daughter, appeared early at the door of their hotel
prepared for an exploring expedition. They watched with
amused interest the final touches bestowed on their turnout.
After a few straps were secured, the family clothes-line came
into use, their land lord with perfect gravity tying the
seats to the body, to the spring, and the whole to the horse.
The vehicle creaked and shook unauspiciously as the occupants
took their seats. Each in turn, cast a searching glance at
the owner, as though to ferret out his private opinion on its
road-worthiness.

"O, its all right," he
affirmed, with many nods; then, swinging a few paces down the
hotel lane, he called to a passing farmer, "Hi, there,
Mack ! Coom up a bit." Returning to the wagon, he
observed as the man so hailed checked his horse,
"Maister MacDonalds going home. He lives on
Middle River," you can follow him and get dinner
at his place. Dinna be afeerd o the rig gin
summat breaks theres a good twenty feet of line under
the seat. Good day maam. Fine luck a fishing
sir."

The road at first ran through the scattered
village and parallel with the lake. The travellers could
scarcely enough admire the broad expanse of glistening water,
broken in outline by many picturesque and pine promontories.
Through channels leading seaward came ocean breakers, dashing
and fretting themselves like wild animals entrapped between
the relentless walls of some hunters snare. Cape Breton
captains are cautious when approaching the struggles of these
ocean fugitives, lest they, too, perish in a fatal clasp of
the "Bras dOr," ("Arm of Gold.")

Upon leaving the village, the road turned
abruptly inland and led through a rolling country thinly
settled. In this primitive portion of Nova Scotia, remnants
of Indian tribes still exist.

The travellers passed several groups of
veritable birch-bark wigwams where Indian children, tumbling
on the ground, raised up their shaggy heads and put back
their stiff, black locks for a better view, while the
inevitable Indian dog snarled at a safe distance from the
whip.

In uplands and meadows, strong limbed
Scotch lassies, at work in the fields, rested for a moment
leaning on rake or hoe, to return the glances of the
passers-by, quite unconscious of the pictures they presented
to admiring eyes. From the summit of a range of hills, higher
than any they had before climbed, the travellers gazed down
into a circular valley crossed by a stream. The hitherto
taciturn guide, looking back, nodded half genially and
pointed ahead. This, then, was "Middle River
Valley."

Rattlety, rattlety, rattlety, went both the
old waggons down this piney slope, down until sounds of
rushing water filled the air. Here, at a turn of the road,
Maister MacDonald drew up before a house, built in the usual
barn-style of architecture. At the sound of the wheels, two
sturdy boys came from a neighboring barn, and a little lass
with hair like corn silk, and eyes like corn mowers, followed
them closely. All hung back at sight of the strangers.

The words were hardly spoken when there
appeared in the house door a woman, who stood for a moment
shading her eyes with her hands. Only a moment, but in that
time the travelers had noted the graceful figure, dark waving
hair, and sweet, open face. She came forward quickly, smiling
a welcome.

"Heres friends to dinner,
Annie," explained the farmer. "This is Mrs.
MacDonald, if yell follow to the house shell do
her best to gie ye comfort."

The youngest guest laid her hand to an
aching forehead, and the violet eyes of the farmers
wife shone with ready sympathy.

"A headache, dearie? Its the
glare o the sun. Ill bring ye a glass o
water fresh from the spring. Lie down a bit within, the
rooms cool and dark; yell be better soon."

The tired guest gladly obeyed, and resting
on the haircloth sofa, looked with interest about the room,
which was of a conventional country type, the furniture
covering, carpet and paper of characterless, mixed patterns
and colors; on the walls were framed prints, photographs of
family tombstones and wreath of hair flowers. But a few
touches, where the mistress of the house had dared to display
her taste, made all the difference between many another
country parlor and this one, which was, withal, homelike.

A long ride is a good appetizer, and the
headache having disappeared, all the travelers fully enjoyed
the dinner Annie set before them; a superstructure of
homegrown fruits and vegetables, with raspberry pie fresh
from the oven, upon a foundation of bacon and eggs, was a
species of culinary architecture which required no
commendation.

Dinner over, fishing baskets were
unstrapped and rods, reeds and flies having been produced and
adjusted, the men strolled away in search of trout. The women
of the party, left to themselves, brought out a hammock from
beneath the wagon seat, and looked about for some shady
retreat, where, amid the fragrant pines, it might be hung.

Annie had followed them from the house,
keeping back a little distance, like a shy child, making up
to some new playmate. She eyed the hammock with surprise.

"Now, what do you do with that?"

"Have you never seen a hammock, Mrs.
MacDonald?"

"No, dearie. O, yed likely
wonder at the little Ive seen. Think of livin
here year in and year out, and my fathers hame was nae
much better, only there were brothers and sisters; here
theres nae body amost, for Willie and the boys
are awa and about all day, and Bessies but a wee
thing. I am not complainin, but I alays fancied
livin among folks."

The listeners whose lives, passed amid the
intensity of urban existence, had held so much of
companionship, looked with heightened interest at the
speakers sweet face, scarcely less childlike than the
face of her child, and she returned their glances of sympathy
with a timid smile, as a forest violet might welcome a
sunbeam.

Made to feel herself welcome, she eagerly
assisted in swinging the hammock, tried it gleefully, but
could not be prevailed to stay in. "Nae, let me see you
in it," she said. Seating herself on the grass near by,
she looked up contentedly and observed, "There are nice
people in the world, aint there? Id like to see
where you live. Why do you come to Cape Breton? The scenes?
Aye, but Id rather have people."

Near at hand, the river gleamed and made
sweet music, striking rippling notes on rocky keys. Around
rose uplands, merging into steep, dark foliaged hills,
dimpled with cloud-shadows, and the deeper gray of hollows
where lie the hidden sources of the mountain brooks. Above
all, the placid sky, flecked with indolent clouds.

To Annie, there was but one interest, one
sight, and this she devoured with hungry eyes. Her earnest
gaze drew the travelers attention to herself. They
consulted together in al low tone, and suddenly the strains
of "Annie O the Banks O Dee: broke the
stillness.

The songs of bonny Scotland are dear to her
children, wherever they may roam. A sweet surprise, as
expression of sudden waking flashed into Annies eyes,
followed by blinding tears.

Simply as the ballad was sung, never had
primadonna known more sincere admiration. When it ended,
"Thank ye? Thank ye?" she said; then timidly;
"I used to sing once. Do you know Annie Laurie! Yes? O,
Im too happy!" Clasping her hands about her knees,
with closed eyes and upturned face, she joined in the song
with a voice untrained but sweet, trembling with happiness.

Sweetly oer the silent valley floated
the strains of each successive song. Led by a mysterious
inspiration, someone softly chanted the opening strains of
"Shall we gather at the River." Insensibly the
strains grew more distinct as voice after voice joined in the
song, and the rushing waters swelled the chorus:

Yes; well gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river.

Voices of the men returned from fishing,
and the rattling and stamping in the barn, where the boys
were "hitching up," proclaimed the approach of the
time for parting., Reluctantly, Annie-rose, and with the
others, hastened to the house. In her heart there was a
struggle for the old time patience, standing face to face
with loneliness once more.

Wistfully she sought to offer some last act
of kindness. "Does your hair need smoothing, dearie? O,
let me do it." And the girl felt the caressing touch to
be a "laying on of hands in blessing." "There,
its a right now." Then suddenly she bent and
pressed her lips lightly to the others forehead "I
had to kiss you, forgive me," she said.

A moment later, she stood in the driveway
watching the travelers out of the gate. Looking back they saw
her face outlined against the halo of a golden twilight. Soon
it was gone. And so they parted.

S. EVANGELINE HARVEY.

Nyack-on-Hudson.

Wednesday, February 8th,
1899 (page 2)

The Late J. A. Woodworth

The Windsor Tribune appeared on Friday last
in full mourning dress. The leading editorial, devoted to the
memory of the late editor is as follows: -

"For the first time in ten years this
column will go to press lacking an article from the pen of
John A. Woodworth. Death in appalling suddenness came on
Sunday morning at five oclock, and the genial spirit
that we had learned to admire so much has gone home to the
"God of the things as they are."

"The funeral took place on Tuesday
morning at 8 oclock from his home, the old "Sam
Slick" house, to the station. Rev. Mr. Dickie officiated
both at the house and at the graveside in the
Covenanters Church burying ground, Grand Pre. Rev. Mr.
Shaw, of Windsor, assisted in the first service and Rev. Mr.
Langille, of Horton, in the second.

"The long line of businessmen who
followed the remains to the depot told of the esteem in which
he had been held. A number went to Grand Pre from here, and
there joined with the friends of his earlier life in
performing the last sad rites.

"So ended the life on earth of the
late editor of this paper, but the influence of his
uprightness and honorable character will long remain. The
news of his death has called froth expressions of sympathy
and regret from all parts of the province. Through the
Tribune Mr. Woodworth was widely known and was admired and
esteemed by many with whom he was personally unacquainted. To
a wide circle of personal friends the news of his death comes
with a shock, and few, indeed, of those who knew him but feel
that they have sustained a personal loss. Those who have been
associated with him in business matters entertain the highest
respect for his memory, and feel the loss of a friend.

"But to the members of his own family
the loss is irreparable. A faithful and loving husband, a
father wise in his counsels and discreet and kind in
reproofs, the companion and confidant of his children, his
memory will ever be cherished by the members of that little
circle. Time may heal the wound now so severely felt, but
time will also bring a fuller appreciation of the extent of
the loss sustained, and an increasing regret for that loss.

"Those of us who have had the pleasure
of knowing Mr. Woodworth intimately will miss him keenly; the
pleasant word, the quick judgment, the apropos story, the
sharp denunciation of wrong cannot be forgotten. An ardent
lover of books, he had read widely and knew closely all the
foremost writers of our century. Blessed with a good memory,
he knew by heart much of Tennyson and other poets. Of late
years Kipling has fascinated him, and many times has the
writer heard him quote from the "Song of the
Banjo." "McAndrews Hymn," "The Last
Chantey," and "LEuvoi," from which the
two lines forming his editorial motto at the head of this
column are taken.

"As a rule, the relations between
employer and employees are apt to be uncomfortable, but in
the Tribune office the best of feeling has always prevailed,
and the mourning among the hands is as genuine as if they had
lost a brother instead of a master.

"The members of Mr. Woodworths
family surviving are his widow, one daughter, Frances, and
two sons, James and Kenneth.